As a queer person of color planning a wedding, sometimes I feel like I don’t get to dream big.
That feeling has hit me hard recently, as I have attended South Asian weddings for friends and family with my fiancée Liezel — celebrations filled with sparkling, sequined, brightly colored Desi outfits; arms with bangles and mehndi body art; and buffet tables with kebabs, naan, curries and gulab jamun for dessert.
But at these joyous, dayslong celebrations, seeing couples talk about the unconditional love and support of their families feels like a reminder of things I’ll never have. Though my fiancée and I share unconditional, unabashed love, we recognize a painful possibility: We may never get to have our dream wedding, one where we can focus on love alone without fear of judgment.
At my wedding, I want to celebrate as my authentic self, wearing traditional Pakistani outfits, surrounded by family members who love me. But as we plan our wedding, Liezel and I find ourselves reaching out to see if some people are open to attending, because they might not “accept” us, a queer couple. Even my dad said there was no point having a traditional Pakistani reception, because “no one would come.”
That lack of acceptance extends beyond family into everyday life, where the assumptions of heteronormativity mix with outright homophobia.
While it’s been a difficult road reconciling the different facets of myself, I’ve found comfort in my identity — at once a queer, Pakistani daughter of immigrants — and in the loving support of my fiancée and chosen family. Coming into queerness has felt like coming home.
2023 PRIDE GUIDE
Still, in recent months, I’ve often felt uninvited — or been uninvited — to gatherings and celebrations involving my own family, where some have framed queerness as a “choice” or “lifestyle,” leaving me feeling invalid for existing.
It doesn’t feel good to check my identity at the door, so I’ve made an intentional effort to advocate for myself — to say that I’m showing up as a queer woman or not at all.
You’d think coming out was the hard part, but the real struggle is being out and authentic around family, or even doctors, receptionists and strangers who assume I’m with a man, because the word “fiancée” doesn’t cue queerness the way “girlfriend” does.
These burning comments remind me of the times I was afraid to come out, because I thought people saw me more clearly than I saw myself. It makes me grapple with internalized homophobia, especially when I wonder if it was worth coming out just to have my identity invalidated repeatedly.
But my therapist reminds me that when I share my story or hold hands with my fiancée, I’m changing the narrative of my family.
Challenging that narrative also means correcting people when they assume my fiancée is a man, holding hands with Liezel when I can feel other people’s eyes on us, continuing to tell my story. When things get really tough, I think of my grandma, who has always loved my fiancée like her own granddaughter. Whenever she says she loves me, she reminds me to tell Liezel, too.
Showing up authentically doesn’t guarantee acceptance from others, but it fulfills a promise to my younger self to love myself unconditionally, even if others didn’t return the favor.
And while heteronormativity is frustrating and reductive, homophobia is downright damaging.
As my fiancée and I plan our wedding, we’ve asked vendors if they’re open to queer couples before sharing our wedding date or vision, because we can’t assume everyone will work with us. When we travel, we consider whether it’s safe enough to hold hands or show affection. And when we meet new people, or folks who don’t “agree” with queerness, we do mental gymnastics wondering if they’re tolerating our relationship or accepting us unconditionally.
Still, I’m celebrating Pride this month and every day — it’s a privilege to be out and living a life I’m proud of. For my fiancée, I hope to be a safe place to land, a person to confide in and celebrate with. I’ve found a digital community of queer folks of color, and we’ve talked about our coming-out journeys, sharing stories about our first loves, awkward first dates and the chosen family members that have helped us accept ourselves. I’ve found comfort in sharing my own story, too, hoping I can make someone else feel a little less alone.
I’ve come to terms with my identity, finding comfort in intersectionality: I am everything at once. I am queer. I am Pakistani. I am the daughter of immigrants.
So, what do I want to see this Pride month and beyond?
More nuanced representation of the LGBTQ+ community in media, from movies to TV shows and news stories. When queer and nonwhite characters appear on my screen, they’re often stereotyped, whitewashed, tokenized, diluted, disregarded or kept out of the limelight. During my coming-out journey, I needed to feel seen: to see queer, femme-presenting brown folks with tattoos, queer Muslim women, queer South Asian women, queer disabled folks.
I needed to see three-dimensional, resilient, authentic characters who made me say, “That’s exactly how I feel” — and not just in moments when they are othered or made to feel unaccepted.
I want to see more people and organizations support the LGBTQ+ community with active, not performative, allyship, hiring and supporting queer employees beyond Pride. I want more queer people of color in leadership positions. I want people to stop assuming I’m straight because of my brown skin, to stop assuming my fiancée must be a man. I want allies to learn our stories, about the origins of the Pride and queer liberation movement, about the work of queer Black activists like Marsha P. Johnson, one of the leaders of the Stonewall riots.
I didn’t choose to be queer, but I can choose to live authentically, to stoke conversations about queerness in communities of color, approaching the dialogue with empathy, without judgment, and with respect for people, beliefs and experiences that differ from my own.
I haven’t always known how to talk about my identity, and maybe you don’t know how to have this conversation with folks from the LGBTQ+ community, either. Here’s my Pride month ask: Continue to learn and challenge your assumptions. I’ll be doing the same, while proudly celebrating all the different aspects of my identity.